


Hera

by maven



Series: Modern Mythology [8]
Category: Birds of Prey (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 05:23:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maven/pseuds/maven





	Hera

Good ideas are strange things. There are good yet impossible ideas like world peace and everyone having enough food and medicine. And there are good yet stupid ideas like those hats with built in umbrellas. And then there are ideas that are really dumb ideas for good reasons. Like Allesandro Volta sticking a wire into each ear to see what electricity did to the human brain.

This is definitely an idea worthy of Volta. 

The first thing that strikes me are her eyes. You read that the eyes are the windows to the soul, how you can read expressions or moods in someone's eyes. 

Which I'd always considered bunk. In my experience you could only read the eyes of people you knew. Like your parents. Like your girlfriend after a several months. Like your best friend or your worst enemy after they're your best friend or worst enemy. 

These eyes shone. 

They were the first things to catch your attention and you had to will yourself to look away. They were the eyes you imagine Caligula or Alexander to have. Eyes of madness and conquest. And they're watching me through the polarized walls of the circular cell. 

"So, not a doctor or a guard, judging by the clothing and age. Although I suppose I haven't kept up with fashion trends lately. And such a young girl," she purrs. "A friend of Helena's I expect? I can't imagine anyone else wanting or able to " 

A detached part of me was aware of the patronizing tone of 'young' and the snide innuendo of 'friend'. I could feel myself flush in anger and embarrassment at her words and the picture they painted. 

"Yes, I am." 

"And of her guardian? The cripple?" she leans forward, fingertips stretching out to touch my arm. I expect to see bright red talons but they're cut super short and unpainted. She adapts the motion to the Plexiglas and turns her touch to a gesture. "I know that it's politically incorrect to call the poor unfortunates crippled but, honestly, let's call a spade a spade." 

"Yes," I grit out. "I consider Ms Gordon a friend." 

"So submissive! Surely she lets you call her Barbara when things get... intense." 

If anything my blush grows and I grit my teeth to prevent myself from saying anything. My third hand memories recognize this but my memories ground me. I've been to shrinks, seen psychologists, talked to counselors and dealt with real mental health professionals. Not a sick quack like Harleen Quinzel. 

"Why are you visiting me, dear?" 

Which is the good/dumb idea thing that I attribute directly to sex. Which is probably why Quinzel's innuendo and hints are striking so hard. 

"It's been three years." 

"Three years? How time flies. What is it that makes the human mind perk up at anniversaries? Is that you need a calendar, a date, a concrete idea to remind you that... oh, where did I put that Wade? He was here just a few months ago." 

"You killed him," I say, fists clenching. 

"I did. Don't look for remorse, little girl. It's not there," she says, waving one hand as if to clear an annoying fly. "Let me see. Let me guess. Deduce, if you will. A memorial service? Or one of those little teddy bear and candle shrines that are becoming so popular." 

She's close enough. Gotham High's annual memorial day. Anti-Stupid Death Day where every promising young light is re-examined and mourned. Dinah and I had, as we had each year since it happened, attended as moral support for Ms Gordon. And later, in our dorm room, Dinah had made love to me with an almost scary desperation. Flooding Our Place and my mind with conflicting thoughts and emotions that had triggered this Volta inspired pilgrimage to bedlam. 

"I read the wonderfully creative obituary, you know. He worked with the cripple. A guidance counselor. I always thought that particular field attracted the Don Quixotes of the world. Tilting at windmills and fighting for lost causes. Which, I suppose, explains his attraction to Barbara on so many levels," Quinn continued, watching me. Doubtless reading my emotions that I knew were naked on my face. "Handsome in a white bread, weak kind of way. I suspect he was very popular with the students. Too ethical or moral to take up all those young cheerleaders on their quest for a better grade, I suspect. I think that's why your Barbara convinced herself she loved him. He was such the opposite of Helena, wouldn't you say?" 

"You killed him," I repeat. 

"I did," she says, nodding and moving right up to the glass, pressing against it as if she could embrace someone through it. "I told him to kiss me and, of course, he did. I didn't tell him to enjoy it. But he did. Mention that to Barbara some time when you and she are arguing and you want to hurt her," she says. Her eyes drift shut as she continues. "I took a really thin, really sharp knife and slid it into his chest. The main advantage of being a psychiatrist is that you learn all the interesting quirks of the tangible human body before they let you play with intangible human minds. Between the fourth and fifth rib," she says, hand rising to trace a line along her chest. "If the knife is very sharp and very thin and you do it oh so slowly... if you time the penetration of the knife with the penetration of your tongue," she continues, hand skimming upwards to touch her lips," or your hands," and her other hand dips lower toward the fly of her jumpsuit, "you can kill someone and they die before they sort out the pain and the pleasure. " 

The guard is shifting slightly behind me. Doubtless to keep an eye on his prisoner. Her eyes snap open and she glares at him. 

"Mood killer. No privacy," she hisses before turning to me and lowering her voice. "But if I put on a show when they first arrive it puts a whole new meaning on the word 'shift'. What were we discussing?" 

"Killing Mr. Brixton. Trying to take over the city," I say tightly. 

"No, we were talking about memorial services and cheerleaders," she says, taking a few steps back. She stretches her arms out to the side, almost preening. "The best laid plans of Harlequin oft go all blooey. And it was a good plan." 

"What was it? I mean, what did you want?" I ask, kicking myself. I sound like a shrink or a reporter. 

"Two fold, really," she says thoughtfully. "Control of Gotham to entice Mr. J to release himself from durance vile to join me. Or fight me for it, I suppose. Plans were a leeetle hazy there, I must admit. And, failing that, well, I'd control Gotham. I like win-win-win plans. I'm not sure why it didn't work." 

"Because you're crazy?" 

"So insulting. And yet, I'm not the one running around in the dark in a costume like your friends. Do you know what the definition of insanity is? When you do something over and over again expecting a different result. And really, if you were doing any good, if any of you do-gooders were actually doing good, then wouldn't the city be safer, cleaner, shinier? If the fool who dressed as a bat, the epitome of sanity in your book, had actually done good would the cripple be in a chair? Would poor Helena have had her mother's lifeblood drain through her fingers? Who is insane, really? Us, who play by the rules and take our punishment, our incarceration, our boredom, or you? Who play be the rules right up until the time that you have the winning point in your hand and you stop and then whine when the inevitable happens." 

"I don't understand." 

"Yes, you do." 

We stare at each other and I realize I do understand. I understand Uncle Jim's firm nod whenever he hears that a cop shot and killed a suspect. I understand Helena's anger at her father for not ending it. I understand the guilt I remember from Dinah over wanting to kill Hawke and over not killing Hawke. 

"If it were me, I'd have killed you," I tell her. "An eye for an eye." 

"So Old Testament. You know, from where I stood -lay actually, broken and bleeding I might add- it seemed they wanted to kill me. The crip... Barbara certainly seemed to want to. She probably would have if Helena hadn't begged her not to. Have you ever heard that? Helena... begging. Probably not. Perhaps the reverse? Her, listening to you..." 

"Yeah, well," I interrupt, desperate to stop that particular sentence. "They wanted to kill you. But now Di... now they're glad they didn't." 

"Ah, a child bride for the child bride. What's her name again? Dianna? Didi?" 

"Dinah," I say and then mentally kick myself. Like I need to hand her ammo. 

"And that's why you're here. To understand why they let me live? Why Helena needed to beg Barbara for my life and why Barbara allowed herself to be convinced? Did you think it was because they saw, deep in my eyes and soul, that I could be rehabilitated? That I could put this all behind me and become a good citizen. Perhaps even use my powers for good?" 

"No," I deny but it's a lie. Because there had to be some reason why they didn't kill her. 

"Yes," she corrects me. "You did. Because you thought there had to be a reason. But, to be honest, there's no chance of rehabilitation. The diagnosis is 'incurably insane'," she says, complete with little air quotes. "The answer to your question is very Old Testament as well. Thou shall not kill. They put some other trappings on it. Because it makes us the same as the bad guys. Because we don't need to. Because it's wrong. Because we're not strong enough to actually play by the rules." 

Her voice had been rising as she made each claim but suddenly she calmed and grew still. I see her eyes shift, the change visible even through the polarized Plexiglas. "Will you do something for me?" 

I step back. "No!" 

"I'm sorry. Reflex. You're safe," she says. "It's a simple request really. Just tell me how they are. Has Helena gotten over her guilt of betraying the crip...Barbara?" 

"It wasn't her fault. She was hypnotised," I answer. 

"Exactly. I'm so glad she can believe that. The ability to rationalize our actions and find self-forgiveness is so important in life. And Barbara. Has she gotten over Wade Brixton's death? Moved on with her life?" 

I think about how happy she is, right now, with Helena and nod. 

"And the child? Not a child, surely. Little Dinah is all grown up? A valuable and confident member of the team?" she asks, putting little air quotes around the word team. 

I nod, no hesitation. No matter how you judge maturity ...kicking bad-guy butt with Helena or helping Barbara run tests or stretched out beside me in our bed ... no, Dinah's all grown up. 

"Good," she says with satisfaction, almost laughing. "Because it will hurt that much more when I take it all away." 

Now I move forward, banging into the Plexiglas and causing the guard to reach for his taser. "No," I protest. 

"No what?" she asks, "No don't? No can't? No please?" she asks. 

"You can't," I say, voice low. The guard is still watching, wary and alert. 

"You're under the impression that Mr. J and myself are here against our wills. Perhaps some of the others, those lacking in imagination and spunk, have no choice in their living arrangements. But, frankly, right now it's more interesting in here than it is out there." 

"Interesting?" 

She smiles. "You'll understand when the time is right. When the players are more interesting and the goal worthwhile. You should go now." 

I nodded and turned; taking the first of the steps that would take me away. And feeling my back tense as if waiting a blow or bullet. 

+++++ 

They're lounging against the hood of Reese's car, comparing ultra sound pics and due dates and morning sickness horror stories. 

"You get what you need?" Reese asks. "For your psych paper?" 

"Yeah, lots of stuff," I assure him, as he opens the back door for me. That fictitious term paper I'd told him about for a cover story would get a big gold star. 

"Hey," Helena says over the front seat after a few minutes. She'd been against this since I first proposed the idea. "You okay?" 

"Yeah," I assure her. Not very convincingly because she doesn't turn back around and Reese starts shooting me little looks in the rear view mirror. "Just crazy talk. I didn't pay attention." 

"Bad guys always lie," Reese tells me. 

"Do they?" I ask. I always hated that particular logic puzzle. 

"Not always," Helena allows. "You gotta remember, with Harley, her lies are the truth and her truths are lies." 

"Yeah," I agree, trying to smile. "I'm just going to close my eyes a bit. Talking to loony tunes is tiring." 

She nods, turning and I can hear her talking to Reese and tune them out. And concentrate on not thinking of the white horse in the middle of my thoughts. Quinzel's last words, just before the secure door had shut, denying me explanations, denial or clarification. 

"I didn't tell Helena to enjoy it either." 

END


End file.
